


Soldiering On

by Inspired178



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspired178/pseuds/Inspired178
Summary: A look into the daily life of Severus Snape.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have any comments, questions, or concerns, feel free to contact me.

Severus Snape is a man who requires _at least_ two cups of strong coffee in the morning before he is ready to face the world. Of course, he is always awake before 6am – eight hours of sleep is a luxury he is rarely afforded – and thus must ingest enough caffeine to kill a horse before he has the mental ability to face breakfast in the Great Hall.

It is a quiet affair: after dressing, he sits at the bare table in his kitchenette, already schooling his features and tripling his defenses. His quarters are empty of anything personal aside from his bookshelf full of his own research. The last Head of Slytherin House had thought it fitting to decorate most of the furniture in dark green and add gaudy chandeliers to every room. Severus, of course, upon moving in, had immediately removed the offending pieces and instead adopted a simple, detached décor.

His rooms at Hogwarts are not his only living quarters, but they might as well be; Spinner’s End, located in the dullest, most economically disadvantaged part of town is falling apart due to neglect, general aging, and the structural issues found uniquely in Muggle households. Severus does not occupy the house (if the term “house” may be so generously applied) unless it is necessary when upholding his position as spy. It is listed as his household in the Ministry’s documents, but abandoning a house in which only horrid things occurred was not one of the most difficult decisions Severus has had to make in his lifetime.

At breakfast time, he sits to the right of Professor McGonagall: second to the right of Professor Dumbledore. He and Minerva, though quite hostile in the first month of his employment, (after all, Minerva to this day places James Potter and Sirius Black on a pedestal) the two soon became quite good friends. The exasperation of the other professors as Severus and Minerva volley insults and clever remarks back to each other is almost enough to get Severus through the day. However on some occasions, their conversations take a rather different course.

“I’m sure the table appreciates your rather plentiful coating of tea, Severus,” Minerva remarks quietly.

Gritting his teeth, Severus takes a sip before murmuring, “Forgive me, Minerva, I was under the impression the Headmaster was overly enthusiastic about tie-dye this year.”

He sets the teacup down as carefully as he can before placing his left hand on the table to steady it while using the right to slowly eat a piece of toast and butter.

“Difficult appointment last evening?” she enquires. To the oblivious observer, Severus and Minerva are merely involved in a casual discussion. But to Severus, he knew she was worried about the _adventurous_ punishments the Dark Lord had demonstrated upon his followers.

“Quite,” Severus replied. He pursed his lips and then sat a little straighter. He carefully dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin before excusing himself. As it was Saturday, he would have the day free to continue his potions research only interrupted by the select few students that were to serve detention with him that evening.

The walk back to his office was uneventful. Swiftly walking down the corridor towards the dungeons, not a single student dared to get in his way. He approached the wooden door which marked his office, and after a rather complicated movement of his wand and an utterance of a Latin phrase, Severus unlocked the door and immediately began tweaking his latest creation.

* * *

 

Answering the summons of the Dark Lord was a necessity that Severus no longer had the patience to dread. One or more Death Eaters endured the Cruciatus Curse, perhaps another suffered torture via Legilimency, and there was, no doubt, the occasionally death of a follower. After nearly twenty years of servitude, Severus, at the age of thirty-six, had successfully numbed himself to the activities of the Dark Lord in regards to the Death Eaters. However, the previous night had been an experience Severus wasn’t likely to forget.

It had been nearly 2am the previous night when the Mark burned with such intensity as to make it feel as though the bearer’s arm was on fire that Severus answered the call. Grabbing his mask, he made quick use of the underground tunnel that led from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. Once beyond the protection barrier, he apparated to the street in front of the Riddle Manor. The door opened to reveal Pettigrew. Severus brushed past him with a sneer, and into the dark, empty room which contained the Dark Lord and his followers.

“Severus, how good of you to join us,” the Dark Lord greeted, his voice no louder than a whisper, yet carrying across the room. Death Eaters stood in a circle, enclosing Severus, forcing him to approach his old master.

“My Lord,” Severus bowed. “It is an honour to be summoned.”

He took his position in the circle and made a point of looking at the Dark Lord’s chin. Eye contact was seen as too pertinent unless the Dark Lord wanted access to one’s mind, yet by not facing the Dark Lord, one was seen as too cowardly. This was a lesson he had learned the hard way at the ripe age of seventeen.

Silence filled the room as the Death Eaters waited with baited breath for the explanation to the summoning. Finally, they were rewarded with such: “It has come to my attention that the fool Dumbledore has recruited more members for his Order from the Ministry,” the Dark Lord said quietly. Some followers shifted on their feet with discomfort. Severus, however, maintained his rigid posture and did not flinch when red eyes settled on his face. “It is my understanding that Dumbledore is raising his army in an attempt to infiltrate my headquarters at the end of the month. He has a weapon that will destroy all of my work.”

“Severus…” he whispered greedily, “my spy… come to me.” Severus walked steadily towards the Dark Lord before kneeling. Head bowed, he stared at the ground. “Why was I not informed of this? Look at me.”

Black met red and Severus allowed a conversation with Dumbledore to drift past his Occlumency shields: nothing important, but interesting enough to give the indication that he had not been told of the plans.

“You are slipping from Dumbledore’s confidence,” remarked the Dark Lord. He raised his wand, and still Severus did not flinch. “You must be reminded of your debt to me. _Crucio_!”

Severus clenched his fists but did not scream. He bit his tongue, back arching as he fought to maintain control of himself. The curse ended and he fell on his hands. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he whispered in what he hoped was a reverent tone. “I accept my punishment.” The Dark Lord laughed in amusement before whispering, “ _Crucio_.”

Hours. It had to be hours that Severus contorted on the floor in silent agony. Eternity. Seconds. Time did not exist as he writhed in excruciating pain. The spell was lifted, and then it was applied again. Again. And again. Finally, Severus broke and screamed. The Dark Lord laughed and lifted the curse. The pain still continued. Suddenly, Severus felt cuts bead with blood across his face and body. “You created that spell, don’t you remember, Severus? I believe you said it was for enemies?” Severus could not speak. He lay on floor, staring at nothing as the Dark Lord circled his body like a bird circles its prey. “You will become my enemy, Severus, if you do not return to Dumbledore’s confidence.”

When Severus did not respond, the Dark Lord grew angrier. “You _will_ address me with your answer, Severus.”

Severus rolled onto all fours and then stood as quickly as he could manage. “As you wish, my Lo-“ he was interrupted by the Dark Lord shouting “ _Ut Carnes!”_

Burning. Still trembling from the Cruciatus, still bleeding from Sectumsempra, Severus cried out in pain. The flesh on his left hand bubbled and singed. He clawed at his face and howled as the fire spread. He was burning! And then all stopped. Gasping, Severus dragged himself to a standing position. Unsteady on his feet, Severus swayed as his mind raced. Would this be it for him?

The Dark Lord smirked. “You are dismissed,” Severus fought for consciousness with all of his might. He fought to stand. To walk. With as graceful a bow as he could muster – which wasn’t much - , he said, “Thank you, my Lord, for this reminder.” Without turning around, he backed out of the room before swiftly leaving the apparition barrier. With a resounding _pop_ , Severus apparated to the Forbidden Forest.

He had made this journey dozens of times: apparate to the Forbidden Forest, sneak back into the castle, report to Dumbledore, and then return to his chambers. Like a mantra in his head, Severus tried to pushed the pain away and tried to assumed an air of propriety, but it was futile. One foot in front of the other. To Hogwarts. To Dumbledore. To safety.

During the walk, he tried to clean up his appearance but found he could not. After years of enduring the Cruciatus Curse, his nerves were wrought. Indeed, he could hide the tremors most of the time, but in the first few hours after the torture, he couldn’t hold his wand much less wield it with enough precision to perform a healing spell. This time, he doubted he could cast a simple unlocking charm with how badly his hands were shaking. But what was more worrying than the burns, the tremors, and the cuts was the dismissal from the Dark Lord’s meeting. It was a common routine to have all the necessary Death Eaters present for a meeting, to then punished those that required it, and then to proceed to discussing the purpose of the meeting. It was meant to scare other followers into subservience – after all, the Cruciatus Curse did not become easier with subsequent exposure – as well as to force the punished to endure their injuries until the meeting was over. But tonight… tonight Severus had been dismissed. He was not privy to the information the Dark Lord was revealing tonight and that was a worrisome thought indeed.

His vision was hazy and he felt as though he was thinking through fog. Though he felt as though he was walking at an appropriate pace, he knew he was most likely staggering towards the Headmaster’s office.

_How quaint_ , Severus thought dryly, _my alertness is waning already._

The gargoyles did not need a password from Severus. No, he had become such a frequent night visitor that they greeted him with a nod before opening the door. Severus leaned against the pillar as the staircase ascended. No need to expend unnecessary energy. At the great oak door, Severus knocked.

“Enter,” came Dumbledore’s voice. Severus opened the door and stepped through, mentally preparing himself for the disappointment in the Headmaster’s eyes. Bracing himself against the wall, he forced himself to stay conscious.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” Severus greeted, voice hoarse from shouting.

“I suppose it is closer to morning, Severus,” replied Professor Dumbledore in a jovial tone. His twinkling blue eyes examined Severus’ state as he folded his hands upon his desk. “You were summoned, I presume?”

Severus nodded. Leaning his back against the wall and carefully folding his arms across his chest, he explained, “The Dark Lord was _displeased_ with my lack of knowledge regarding the Order’s recent recruitment and the planned infiltration.” A shot of phantom pain tore up his spine and he clenched his jaw. Injuries would have to wait. “I showed him conversations shared between you and myself, but he intends for me to become a more reliable informant immediately.”

With a thoughtful look, Dumbledore gestured for Snape to sit in an overly stuffed chair in front of the desk. Severus declined with a slight shake of his head and waited for the Headmaster to respond.

“I believe,” Dumbledore began slowly, his gaze far away, “we may reveal more information to Voldemort if you are certain your life depends upon it.” He looked up at Severus. Eyes still twinkling, but Severus knew that scheming for a bigger plot lurked behind the apparent concern. Only if his life truly depended on it would Dumbledore make the necessary steps to keep him alive. If not, well, that was for Severus to deal with.

“It is necessary,” replied Severus. “Without a knowledgeable spy, my position is compromised.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Then I shall begin to consider what information we can spare. You were dismissed early?”

Severus nodded.

Dumbledore frowned. Silent for a moment, Severus focused his attention on the sharp pain on his leg. _Stay. Conscious._ Finally, Dumbledore spoke, apparent unhappiness forgotten: “For now, you may return to your quarters. We would not want your pupils serving detention to be subjected to a more irritated professor than per usual.”

Accepting the dismissal, Severus exited the office and strode towards the dungeons. Each step was agony. Each breath coming in ragged, short gasps. Yet he kept quiet. Kept hidden. Until he reached his quarters, he must appear to be the very definition of uninjured. The air cooled around him as he staggered into the dungeon. His Slytherins wouldn’t dare be out of bed at this hour, but those were not the only eyes in the depths of the castle. Opening the door to his rooms, Severus tossed his bloody cape into the hamper before collapsing into a kitchen chair.

_Breathe_. He reminded himself. _You are alive._

With tremoring hands, he summoned a wash basin and cloth. Red hands became pale. The numerous small cuts on his hands are closed with a whispered “ _Sano_ ”. Next comes the arms. Three deep cuts on his right forearm, bubbling flesh spotted across both and the bright red flesh of his left hand did not look promising. Thankfully, not a single lesion cut his tendons or muscle and not a single burn removed flesh. Once all of his surface wounds were treated, Severus stood up. The room spun around him and he put his hands on the back of the chair. _Breathe._ Deep breath. In. Out. The world began to slow.

Walking to his personal potions cabinet, he selected one of his own making: a rather nasty concoction meant to reduce the symptoms of the Cruciatus Curse. It didn’t stop the unsteadiness in his hands immediately, but any relief was welcomed.

5 a.m. There was no point in trying to sleep now. With a weary sigh, Severus called for a house elf.

“Trudy at your service, Professor,” said a rather old looking elf. Her skin sagged in such excess as to look as though she was once much larger. Severus preferred this house elf because she did not fear him nor did she throw herself at his feet. That creature… _Dobby_ was an absolute headache in all matters.

“Trudy, I require a pot of coffee, if you will,” he instructed. He noted that his voice sounded particularly hoarse. “And some lemon tea with honey,” he added.

“Of course, Professor. Trudy won’t be a minute.” The house elf disappeared and in seconds had the requested items on the table. “Professor give Trudy a call when he’s done.” Dismissed, she left for the kitchens.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. As if Fate hadn’t found it satisfying enough to leave him alive, sore, and uncontrollably shaking, She also had managed to arrange him an oncoming headache and a racing heart.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he attempted to raise the cup to his lips. Hot coffee splashed out of the mug all over himself. _No full glasses today_ , he thought. Cleaning himself up, he poured his second cup, making sure to leave ample space between the liquid and the rim of the cup. Staring at the wall in front of him, mind too hazy to concentrate on anything in particular, Severus drained his cup mechanically. After his fifth cup, he reached for the tea with the intention of savouring it. His headache had become a dull thud behind his eyes. But something was still off. Whether from the excessive amounts of caffeine or the strenuous night, his heart would not settle. Pounding in a cacophonous, syncopated pattern with his headache, it would not slow down. _Breathe_ , he reminded himself for what felt like the thousandth time that night. But his body would not listen. He felt thousands of miles away and yet too much in the present. He moved to set his teacup down but as he watched his hand do so – and he knew he felt the cup – it did not feel like his hand.

_Breathe!_ He admonished himself. He was faintly aware of the gasping breaths he was already taking, yet it did not feel like enough. His chest became heavier and his vision entered an unpleasant fogginess. Focusing on the pain on his left hand, he slowed his breathing to a normal rate. In an effort to maintain his calm through routine, he changed his clothes, washed his face, and tidied up the mess he had left from his return.

8 a.m. It was time for breakfast in the Great Hall. Titanium wall after titanium wall closed down in his mind. Layer after layer he gathered himself in his essence and blocked it off. Once his defences were in place, he stalked towards the Great Hall. As his black silhouette turned the corner to the staff entrance, he braced himself. Another day. Another twenty-four hours of soldiering on.


End file.
